


I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Something Beautiful But Annihilating [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, See Notes for Additional Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara isn't entirely sure when she turned into a ghost. She's sure that she used to be the Impossible Girl, but now she's not even certain she's human, and the only kind of impossible she knows is the kind that stops her from doing anything. People try to help her, with their soft words and kind expressions, but all she wants is the Doctor, <em>her</em> Doctor. </p><p>Because if there's one thing she remembers how to do, it's run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a one-shot spinoff to Kissed Me Quite Insane! It slightly overlaps the epilogue to that work, and is very much Doctor-lite, as it concentrates largely on Clara's recovery. The forthcoming sequel will be multi-chapter and much more Doctor & Clara centric.
> 
> Due to this, trigger warnings for PTSD, mental trauma, self harm, abuse, sexual assault & people being shitty about mental health.

Clara sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair emotionlessly, her eyes fixed in her lap as she stared, unseeingly, at her bitten down nails, fidgeting absentmindedly. She was dimly aware that they were talking about her, of course, in that quiet, hushed way that they thought she couldn’t hear, but she no longer had enough energy to invest in their conversation. An expectant hush had fallen, and she realised slowly that they must have asked her something, that she must be expected to offer a response, but she hadn’t heard the question and so she stayed silent, picking at her cuticles and wondering why she was here, why she couldn’t just be _left alone._

“Clara?” her dad said gently, reaching for her hand, and she flinched away as though she has been burned, her eyes wide with mistrust as she surveyed him with panic. He sighed apologetically, holding his hands up reassuringly. “Sorry,” he murmured softly. “Sorry, I forgot, it’s alright, look? See? It’s alright?” he turned to the GP and continued as though Clara was not there, but she supposed she _wasn’t_ , not really. “See? She can’t stand being touched… has all these nightmares, wakes up screaming… my wife and I don’t know what to do. She’s like a ghost.”

 _A ghost._ Clara would have laughed if she’d had the energy or the inclination, but she recalled laughing in the dim way that one remembers their childhood: half a dream, half someone else’s memories, until you’re not sure it ever happened quite the way you were sure of. She wished then that she could be a ghost, incorporeal and beautifully tragic, instead of this pathetic excuse of a human, unable to last an hour without dissolving into tears that she never quite understood. 

“Clara?” came the doctor’s voice in the tone that Clara used to so abhor, the one that was full of pity and condescension, but now it seemed somehow fitting, balm to her wounds. “Clara, did something bad happen to you?” 

They’d been asking her the same question for days, watching her eyes unfocus as she failed to respond, retreating into her own world as a way of coping with the memories that the sentence brought. She couldn’t tell them, of course. The tiny part of her brain that was not devoted to destroying her life knew that she couldn’t tell them the truth, and so she had lied and tried to smile, staying in her room and devoting herself to memorising the pattern on the ceiling instead. 

But now… now she found herself, against her better judgment, nodding slowly, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze as she was faced with a flashback of Clary’s eyes flashing with anger, her hand connecting with Clara’s cheek in a stinging slap which seemed to echo so loudly from her memory that she was amazed no-one else could hear it. 

“What happened?” the GP asked gently, and Clara felt a tear rolling down her cheek, splashing onto the stained fabric of her joggers and turning the grubby fabric a darker shade of grey. It took a superb effort to make her voice work, trying several times to form the words she needed. 

“My girlfriend…” she paused, and they let her think, let her collect her thoughts, and it was that which made all the difference, that which contrasted so sharply to Linda’s angry approach to Clara’s _state._ “My girlfriend did things. Bad things… for a while…” 

“Bad things that hurt you?” the doctor’s voice was kind, so very kind, but Clara felt the memories threatening to consume her, choking her voice, and so she only nodded, once, a quick jerk of the head that displaced her concentration enough for another image of the dark time to spill through, her attention waning as she fought to keep the past in the past.

She didn’t hear the doctor’s diagnosis, or Dave’s intake of breath in response, didn’t see the prescription that was handed over or the booklets that her father was handed on coping with Clara’s treatment. As she walked mechanically back to the car and strapped herself in automatically, it wasn’t until her father placed the sheaths of paper on the dashboard that she took in the brightly coloured words and their foreboding meaning. The same five letters on every one, sometimes expanded into a phrase, a rainbow of bad news. 

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

She closed her eyes tightly and rested her head on the glass of the window, willing the world to fade to blackness, but she could only see the words, the words and their colours, and then there was a flash of crimson, a jolt of remembered pain, before unconsciousness reached for her welcomingly and she took its hand with gratitude, slipping into cool oblivion.

 

~/~/~/~

 

She wasn’t entirely sure how she got to the quiet, neutral-coloured room with the comfortable chairs, but she hoped it was kicking and screaming. The unfamiliar woman looked at her with bright interest, smiling warmly as she waited for Clara to engage with her.

“Hello, Clara,” she said measuredly. “I’m Doctor Kate, I’ll be your therapist for the next few months.”

Clara didn’t remember agreeing to this, but there was so much now that she couldn’t remember that she was barely surprised by the news. 

“We’ll be working together to help you recover, using some techniques that I hope you’ll find useful and effective. We want to help you work through your trauma so that you can re-integrate with your old life. Would you like to maybe explain a little of what happened? Your GP was quite vague.” 

Clara closed her eyes against the rising panic, the knowledge that she was going to have to explain things to this stranger, and her heart constricted in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she tried to stem the tide of emotions.

“Clara? You’re having a panic attack, but I can help you. I need you to open your eyes.” The therapist was gentle but firm, and Clara found herself obeying, focusing with some difficulty on the carpet by her feet. “I want you to tell me five things about this room.” She commanded, and Clara raised her eyes half an inch to survey the woman mistrustfully before deciding to play the game. 

“The… the window is open. There’s four chairs. Umm. The carpet is beige. Your desk is big. You have a lot of books.” 

“Good,” the therapist said kindly, her tone soothing. “This is the present, this isn’t the place where you were harmed. What you just did is called grounding. It helps you to separate the past from the present by reminding you which is which.” 

Clara nodded a small nod, her gaze returning to her knees as she tried to compose herself. 

“Now, in your own time. There’s no rush.” 

Clara began to talk apprehensively, her words quiet and unsure. 

They had to use the grounding technique a dozen times more before the session was over.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Dave wasn’t entirely sure when Clara last bathed. What he did know was how unwilling she was to enter the bathroom, how panicked she became when the issue was brought up, how anxious she had grown when he suggested she could take a long, hot bath to try and unwind. After much consideration, he raised his concerns with her therapist, who promised to bring it up with Clara to try and talk through the issue. 

“Your dad says you don’t like baths,” Doctor Kate mentioned casually in their next session, and Clara’s head snapped up as she flashed back to that first act of violence, of waking up in the tub with blood crusted in her hair and a hand clamped over her mouth. 

“He shouldn’t have… I don’t…” she managed, chewing a fingernail anxiously. “It was just… something.”

Doctor Kate didn’t probe. She never probed, she let Clara talk in her own time, and so she simply waited, patiently, allowing Clara to gather her confidence and explain. 

“My girlfriend… went for me,” she explained dully. “And I hit my head, and she put me in the tub and left me.” 

“So it brings back memories,” Doctor Kate said understandingly, nodding kindly. “You know the strategies…” 

“Of course I do!” Clara snapped unexpectedly, before guilt overwhelmed her. “It’s still… the sight of it… it’s like I just forget… I try, but I can’t…” 

That evening, at Doctor Kate’s suggestion, Dave fetched a double sheet from the airing cupboard and draped it over the bath, ignoring Linda’s protestations, his thoughts concerned only with his daughter’s recovery. Shortly after, Clara entered the bathroom without being prompted, emerging from the shower thirty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, smelling of peaches and mint as she rubbed her hair dry.

She didn’t need to speak. He understood what she wanted to say.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Each session, Doctor Kate tried to encourage Clara to talk more and more about her past, about her relationship, about what had happened precisely, but Clara wasn’t stupid. She knew what she could and couldn’t say, knew when to stop and when to think twice before she spoke. Even in her emotionally exhausted state, she knew not to mention the Doctor, or the dark cell, but she understood that she needed to face up to what happened, even if it was alone, and so she simply sat passively each night and let the memories wash over her, trying to use the breathing exercises that Kate had taught her to level her breathing as she let the recollections consume her bit by bit. 

She was in the middle of this, at one o’clock in the morning, when the power cut and her room was plunged into total, all-encompassing darkness, a scream bubbling from her throat instinctively as she curled up on her bed, reverting to her captive state, her arms over her head, anticipating the inevitable pain. Her coping techniques were forgotten as she rocked, repetitively, scratching at her arms with jagged nails, her mind flashing back to that cell, and it was only when her dad burst in with his phone held aloft as a flashlight that she calmed a little, both of them barely heeding the quiet, muttered “for fuck sake” from Linda. Dave sat beside Clara, trying to offer reassurance, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around his daughter but knowing he couldn’t, settling instead for gentle words and quiet encouragements, hoping it would be enough. 

“I’m going back to bloody bed,” Linda muttered, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were on his daughter’s face as she wept, and for the thousandth time he wondered: 

_What did she do to you, Clara?_

 

~/~/~/~

 

Doctor Kate had suggested family therapy as a way to try and involve Dave and Linda in Clara’s recovery, Dave consenting on Clara’s behalf, and so now here they were, gathered in the familiar office that Clara had come to see as her haven, Linda scowling and even Dave looking unsure about his decision. They’d been talking for half an hour about their concerns and fears as a family, Linda sulking silently in the background, but it wasn’t until Doctor Kate mentioned Clara’s struggles that she snapped, jumping to her feet and snatching up her handbag. 

“ _Clara’s_ struggles?” Linda almost shouted, her face livid. “Oh yeah, poor Clara, coming home at the age of 29 and ruining my marriage, disrupting our household with her crying and her nightmares, boo fucking hoo!” 

Dave looked at his wife incredulously, his face contorting into an unfamiliar expression that Clara recognised from Doctor Kate’s picture cards as anger. 

“Now…” the doctor cautioned, holding up a hand, but she was cut off by their bickering, the two of them caught up in their own world as frustrations boiled over and old wounds were reopened.

“I thought you wanted to help!” Dave protested, his voice rising in volume, and Linda laughed an unkind laugh, her expression cruel.

“Help? She’s never been anything to do with me!”

“She’s my _daughter_!” Dave reminded her angrily, and Linda raised her eyebrows, her hatred for Clara finally coming to a head as her bitterness welled up. 

“Oh yes, you and Saint Ellie’s precious daughter, oh, Clara, Clara, Clara…” Linda rolled her eyes. “Precious little Clara. She’s a grown woman but she can’t even sleep through the night, for fuck sake!”

Dave’s face was a mask of anger as he contemplated his wife furiously, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths to try and combat his rage. “You _know_ why…” he began, but Linda cut him off with another savage cackle. 

“Because she’s a fucked up little attention seeker, that’s why!” Linda spat. “I could’ve told you that for free, without all the fancy psychiatrists, without the whopping great bills: sweet little Clara is a _liar._ ” 

“Get out,” Dave managed, knowing he wasn’t entirely within his rights to send her away from this neutral space, but he was willing to try anyway. “Go home, pack your things and get out.” 

Linda’s silence was all the assent that he needed, although she didn’t say a word as she slammed the door behind her, and Dave looked around for Clara then, remembering himself, wondering why the room seemed curiously empty. The doctor affixed him with a look of deepest disapproval as she crouched beside the sofa, speaking softly into the space between that and the wall, and he stood, crossing the room and squatting beside his daughter’s hiding place, holding out a hand. 

“Love?” he said softly. “I’m sorry I lost my rag, it wasn’t your fault, none of this is your fault. Come on out, it’s alright. She’s gone. It’s just us two, kiddo. I’m sorry.”

She surveyed him through lashes wet with tears, her knees clutched to her chest as she took deep breaths and weighed up the situation.

After a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand in her own, squeezing gently.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Group therapy had been her dad’s idea. Other survivors, other women, who would understand what she’d been through, who would listen and offer practical advice without judging her. Or at least, that’s what he’d said when he’d dropped her off outside twenty minutes ago, promising that he’d come and get her when the hour was up. Clara sat in the circle of battered wives and beat-up girlfriends, apprehensively listening to story after story of abusive husbands and boyfriends and stepfathers, but not once was a female partner ever brought up, not once was there a story that resonated with her emotionally, and she began to feel increasingly distant, recognising the signs of dissociation and trying to fight it. Worse, she felt like a phony, like she wouldn’t be taken seriously, and she was contemplating that worry when she realised abruptly that they were all staring at her in anticipation, that it was her turn to speak.

She stood up nervously, her mouth dry, and wrung her hands, focusing on finding the words to express herself. 

“My name’s Clara…” she began, and there were murmurs of welcome and support from the group, building up her confidence. “My name’s Clara and my girlfriend… my girlfriend used to…” 

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, one woman shaking her head, and that was all it took for her to bolt for the door, running as she had not run in a long time, the blood thundering in her ears and her heart racing, feeling more alive than she had in months.

She ran until she was out of breath, bending double on the pavement and laughing a little, unaccustomed to the sound but finding it oddly comforting. She faintly remembered a phrase, a phrase that had changed her life so completely, and she uttered it then, feeling a jolt of familiarity as she spoke, connecting to her old life as she did so. 

“Run you clever boy. And remember.”  

 

~/~/~/~

 

Clara left the office for a final time with a spring in her step, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She’d been discharged only minutes earlier, and now she strode towards the seafront with the wind in her hair and determination in her heart, wondering where she would go from here, wondering what the next phase in her recovery would be. Doctor Kate had been complimentary of her progress, reiterating her encouragement for Clara to take up hobbies and spend time with friends, while nevertheless making sure she stuck to her course of medication, reporting back every month or so to ensure that recuperation was being facilitated effectively and safely. 

Clara knew with sudden clarity what she needed, _who_ she needed, and so she dialled the familiar number with trepidation, realising she could kill two birds with one stone.

“Clara!” the Doctor exclaimed cheerfully, and she felt her heart leap, despite the unfamiliar voice. “How are you?”

“I’ve been discharged,” she explained breathlessly, tucking her hair behind her ear with her free hand. “From counselling.”

“That’s great news!” the Doctor replied enthusiastically, and Clara smiled a little more confidently. “We should celebrate!”

“Yes we should,” Clara acquiesced, leaning against the balustrade on the promenade, the sun warming her skin as the sea air filled her lungs. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Sure,” the Doctor said brightly. “Be at yours in an hour.”

There was a small click as she hung up, and Clara looked down at the prescription in her hand with distaste, the idea of medication impeding upon her time with the Doctor abhorrent. She told herself firmly that she didn’t need tablets, didn’t need regulatory pills, but rather she needed travel and excitement to take her out of her comfort zone, and so she made her decision in a split second.

Screwing the green paper up, she let the sea breeze carry it away, heading home, full of hope for the future.


End file.
